


Aziraphale/Crowley ficlets

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2020-11-01 03:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: An archive of Aziraphale/Crowley ficlets I've posted to my Tumblr





	1. in the heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two idiots in a garret

A city as big as London never really stops, but in heat like this, it certainly slows down. Those with access have fled to places with air conditioning, and those who do not improvise the best they can with cold drinks and fans of varying effectiveness. The bookshop is closed, it being Tuesday; but even if it were not, an aging storefront with poor ventilation is hardly an attractive destination in weather like this.

In a second-floor room, a ceiling fan spins listlessly, nowhere near enough to stir the air in a way that would make it circulate. Fortunately, neither of the occupants have need of its utility.

“Seems like a waste of miracling… juice. Stuff. Energy,” Crowley slurs, heat-drunk and indolent. It doesn’t usually get that hot here, not enough for a proper bask anyways, so he’s going to enjoy it while he can.

Aziraphale shifts beneath him, enjoying the weight of Crowley’s body on his. “The effort to conjure it is trivial. And it does give the room the proper atmosphere.”

Crowley snorts. “For someone who doesn’t like opera you certainly have a flair for the dramatic.”

“An appreciation for a befitting accent piece is not ‘a flair for the dramatic’!” A pause, then sulkily: “It ties the room together.”

“Ah yes, the painstakingly curated aesthetic of the bookseller’s garret.”

Aziraphale is about to protest, but Crowley stretches, curling his tail around Aziraphale’s ankle and resting his head against Aziraphale’s collarbone. Here he doesn’t smell like cologne or hair product*, just a little bit of musk that he can only describe as snakey. Aziraphale marvels that even after so long, he’s still learning new things about his best friend.

The fan pushes the soupy air around half-heartedly, bringing with it noise from the outside: a bell from a passing velocipede, the chatter of patrons leaving the cafe. Eventually the heat becomes fierce enough even the hardiest have gone indoors, and the sounds fade.

Aziraphale runs a gentle finger down Crowley’s side. His skin is dry and cool.

“This is very nice, wouldn’t you agree?” he asks softly.

Crowley stirs but does not wake. Aziraphale closes his eyes and settles in further. He has time to wait.

–

* As a supernatural being it’s not difficult to manifest your appearance as you wish, but sometimes pomade is easier.


	2. online shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale discovers online shopping and things get out of hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for sabinelagrande

It’s not just Crowley’s imagination; the bookshop has acquired many more boxes in the past few weeks, to the point where he’s threading around them to get to the back room. It’s not until they start piling up on the couch strategically placed to catch the afternoon sun that he says something.

“Angel? Have you considered unpacking some of…” He gestures around. 

Aziraphale looks up. “Of course I will, darling. Once I actually get to the end of the list.” 

Crowley peeks over his shoulder at the computer screen. It looks like an auction site for antiquarian books. Suddenly everything makes sense. 

He moves a box off the couch and sits down with a sigh. “I know moderation isn’t a virtue you’re even close to familiar with, but I think in this case, it’s something you’re going to have to learn.” 

Somewhere, God, Satan, somebody; is laughing at him. He feels it in his bones.


	3. sunburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> summer holidays, sunburn, and potentially snakes shedding their skins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for notcaycepollard

It’s strange what Aziraphale does and doesn’t remember about Crete. The ocean remains as blue as it was the first time he visited, almost four thousand years ago at this point. He can still see the lines of the palace at Knossos as it was whole, hear the echoes of the court as they participated in the greeting rituals when the royal family entertained guests. The creamy tang of fresh sheep’s milk cheese has not changed a bit, nor the fiery burn of raki thrown back in a taverna late at night.

And yet somehow, he forgot he burns like a lobster anywhere close to the Mediterranean. He thought the pain would be enough to remind him, but apparently it wasn’t pertinent enough to register. He really, really wishes it had.

“Crowleyyyyy. Can you please get my back, darling?” 

A serpentine head raises, looks at him resentfully. But Crowley does morph back into a form with limbs and grabs the economy-sized bottle of aloe gel. He slathers Aziraphale’s back with it, and he sighs at the blessed, wonderful coolness.

“Thank you, my dear.” He catches Crowley’s hand, brushes his lips against the fingers. Then he regrets it because they taste like watery leaf juice and chemicals.

“If I could make you a snake until you peel properly I would,” Crowley grumps. But he’s smiling when he says it, so he can’t be that put out.


	4. thick thighs save lives [nsfw]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for gethporno, based on [this lovely fanart](https://khiroptera.tumblr.com/post/187948624335/ahahha-so-i-wanted-to-draw-them-kissing-then-i)

The rhythms of human life do not apply to otherworldly beings, but it does not mean they are unaware of them. The character of Soho changes on Friday night, the commuters and residents giving way to young people of any, all, and no genders; dressed to impress, or at least make others take a second look. **  
**

Crowley and Aziraphale have taken to having dinner in one of the many restaurants and pubs in the district on Fridays, watching prospective clubgoers in the street from a patio or terrace. The appreciation is largely aesthetic for both of them, but Aziraphale is more obvious about it. Not just because he’s not wearing sunglasses that obscure his eyes, but because he’s very bad at hiding his enjoyment, however slight. And so Crowley watches Aziraphale eat, and observes Aziraphale watching.

After dinner, they make their way back to the shop. (Sometimes they hold hands, and passers-by smile when they see.) Tonight they’re up in the flat sitting on the couch, enjoying a beautiful old port.

Aziraphale is smiling about something, cheeks beautifully flush. He glances over at Crowley, and his expression softens, grows fond. He leans in for a kiss, urging Crowley’s mouth open with his tongue. He tastes like caramel and spice: sweet, rich, heady. 

Crowley makes a noise and drags him closer, until they’re almost chest to chest. Aziraphale tips him back until Crowley’s laid out on the couch, and he hauls the angel on top of him, pulling him down for more kisses. 

He adores the feel of Aziraphale’s body on top of his own: grounding, anchoring (and on occasions, pinning). Aziraphale presses against one of his legs and Crowley shifts, just to be a bastard. Aziraphale huffs and bites Crowley’s bottom lip, not enough to break skin but definitely enough to hurt a little. It adds a delicious note to the pleasure, making Crowley’s hips roll against Aziraphale’s body.

His hands loop round Crowley’s neck, pressing them closer together. His gorgeous, wonderful thighs are within grabbing distance, and Crowley sees no reason not to touch. They’re full and sumptuous, and he runs his hands down the back of them, feeling the muscle underneath the softness.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, squeezing. He’s rewarded with a low moan and Aziraphale rutting against him. 

Crowley whispers in his ear. “Angel.” 

Aziraphale stops, a petulant look on his face so transparently manipulative it makes Crowley laugh and kiss the end of his nose.

“If you want we can stay on the couch and come in our trousers like human teenagers, but I think you’d have a much better time on the bed.” 

“And why is that, darling?”

Crowley moves a hand up the inner seam of Aziraphale’s trousers. “Because I’d very much like to spread you and get between your legs. Then I want to suck bruises up and down your pretty thighs, and eat you out until you can’t remember your name.”

His eyes go dark as his breath hitches, and Crowley allows himself to feel a little smug. “That sounds lovely, my dear.” He gets off Crowley and extends his hand. “Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?” 

Crowley takes it, pulling himself up. “Yes, let’s.” 


	5. teapot

They’re going through centuries of accrued possessions when the teapot is unearthed. It’s a finely wrought thing made of pewter, the body shaped like a gourd. A snake bursts forth from it, its head and front half of its body forming the spout. The rest of it curls round top and back as the handle. 

“What’s this?” Crowley smiles and picks it up for closer examination. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims when he sees what Crowley’s holding. “A trinket I acquired, nothing more.” 

Aziraphale is a shit liar at the best of times, and the way he’s blushing, paying attention to everything else but Crowley, it’s definitely something. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but this is more than some bauble you picked up at a rummage sale.” In addition to being well-made, Crowley can sense deep emotion attached to it, although what exactly he’s not sure. 

“It’s rather silly now that I think about it. I haven’t used it in decades.” There’s a streak of dust on Aziraphale’s forehead where he brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and Crowley resists the urge to wipe it away.

“Why not? It’s quite fetching, if I do say so myself.” It’s not that Crowley dislikes old things, but they have to hold some sort of significance for him. Or the angel, apparently.

“Well, the thing is, you were asleep.” Aziraphale is perched on the edge of the sofa, worrying a handkerchief into a twisted line. 

“And?” At least that narrows the timeline down.

“It was right after Oscar—well, never mind that. I was feeling dreadfully out of sorts for months after, and I came across it at some gallery. It was the first thing that cheered me up in ages, so I bought it. Because it reminded me of you.” 

“I see.” Now he’s able to identify the emotions swirling round the teapot: longing, loneliness, and so much love he wonders how he could have missed it before. Aziraphale must have used it regularly for decades to have suffused it with such intensity of feeling. 

“So when did you put it away?” Crowley asks, although he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“After the church.” Aziraphale’s still blushing, but he’s smiling now too. “It seemed unnecessary after having the real thing come back to me.” 

Something happens to Crowley’s chest that he’s sure would be fatal in an actual human. “Soppy angel,” he says, putting it into one of the boxes they’re taking with them to the cottage. If Aziraphale notices he doesn’t mention it.

The first morning in their new home, Crowley makes them breakfast in bed. On the tray, among other things, are two mugs and the teapot. 

“Oh my dear, you didn’t need to—” 

Crowley shrugs. “Thought it might be nice to bring it out again.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “It is indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is the teapot](https://schneckie.tumblr.com/post/189000244030/cgmfindings-art-nouveau-snake-pewter-teapot-l%C3%A9on). Isn't it pretty?


	6. raspberry

Rain drums against the windows of Crowley’s flat, and he is glad for the fire in the not-hearth (it’s terribly modern and he doesn’t know what it’s called, but it’s sleek and expensive and kicks out heat like a circle of Hell), the three bottles of Rioja Gran Reserva on the coffee table, and the angel’s head in his lap. 

They’d decamped here after a lovely dinner and dessert (according to Aziraphale) at a new restaurant, pleasantly full and still giddy with the novelty of being able to not just be seen together in public, but to touch, hold hands, kiss. 

As soon as the door closed Crowley found himself gently pushed against it, Aziraphale crowding into his space to press their lips together. (To Crowley’s complete lack of surprise, the angel kisses like he eats: with whole-hearted enthusiasm and a tendency to vocalize his pleasure.) He was redolent of chocolate and sweetened whipped cream, and Crowley doesn’t know why he’d ever have dessert when he can just lick the taste out of the angel’s mouth. 

They remained thus occupied for a period of time, until thunder rumbled outside and rain began to fall in noisy sheets. Aziraphale pulled away at the sound and cocked his head. “Well, I’m certainly glad we’re not out there.”

Crowley took the opportunity to scoot away towards the kitchen. “Go sit down, angel; I’ll bring out some vino.”

Aziraphale’s eyes glowed with delight when Crowley presented him a glass. It was rich, full, and spicy, aged to perfection. He sighed happily after he tasted it, leaning into Crowley’s side. Crowley wrapped an arm around him, pressed a kiss to his temple. This is not perfection—he’s seen it and it holds no appeal. It’s comfort, which is infinitely better.

Throughout the evening and two more bottles, Aziraphale gets progressively more horizontal, until his head is in Crowley’s lap. Crowley runs his fingers through pale curls, molds his palm to the back of Aziraphale’s head. He leans into it like a cat, his eyes closed and mouth open slightly in pleasure. For a moment Crowley ponders snaking his spine so he can kiss Aziraphale from where he is, but the sight of his angel happy, content, and absolutely beautiful gives him pause.

Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s free hand, bringing it to his mouth. Crowley’s not sure what he’s trying to do, but Aziraphale pursing lips to his palm and blowing loudly against it isn't anywhere near the possibilities he considered. 

“Angel? What the fuck was that?” It’s not an alarmed question, just a deeply confused one. Aziraphale certainly has a sense of humor, but it doesn’t usually lean towards the, ah, biological. 

“A raspberry tart,” he replies, as if it weren’t painfully obvious. He giggles then, rather pleased with his entendre. The angel must be absolutely pissed, if he’s not just laughing at but making fart jokes.

“Are you feeling quite all right?” He puts the back of his hand against Aziraphale’s forehead, like he’s seen people do on the telly. Doesn’t feel any hotter or colder than usual (and when did he become close enough to know what the angel’s normal body temperature is?). 

“Perfectly wonderful, darling. I’m full and drunk and I’m looking up at you and everything is absolutely lovely.” He waves his hand and almost smacks Crowley in the face. 

“I’m glad you’re happy, angel.” Crowley catches his hand, hoping to avoid more overenthusiastic near misses. 

“All the other stuff. ‘S nice, don’t get me wrong.” Aziraphale frowns, like he’s not sure why he’s getting so colloquial. (For him, at least.) 

“Anyways. The best thing—” He brings Crowley’s hand to his mouth again, this time kissing the back of it with a big loud smack. “The best thing is you’re here, and I’m here, and we’ll both be here tomorrow, and that’s more than I could have ever hoped.” 

Crowley’s extraneous heart squeezes with an ache that’s mostly fond, and he brushes some hair away from Aziraphale’s forehead. “Yeah, it is, and I’m glad.” 

Aziraphale makes a pleased noise and kisses at Crowley’s fingertips, soft and affectionate, before closing his eyes and relaxing into Crowley’s lap.

After a while, Crowley shifts against the leather couch, making a noise that could be considered rude. Aziraphale giggles, because apparently this is how he's going to be.

Crowley sighs. It might be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently "raspberry" is derived from "raspberry tart," which is Cockney rhyming slang. You could not say "fart" on the BBC as late as the 70s. So now you know!


	7. obligatory post-lockdown ficlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quSXoj8Kob0&feature=youtu.be)

He’s putting the finishing touches on a Madeira cake when he hears footsteps towards the front of the shop. He’s certain he locked the door, but who knows? It might be the boys from the other night, coming back for more baked goods. He wonders if he can foist the scones off on them, along with the rest of the jam and clotted cream. As delightful as they are, one can only have so much of a thing that makes butter look like a diet food.

He taps his little sieve of caster sugar carefully over the loaf. For a recipe this simple, the balance of flavours needs to be precise. While it would certainly not ruin the cake if he put on too much or too little, he would know the difference, and it would bother him with every bite.

“Thought you’d make something a bit fancier, given all the other things you listed off.” Crowley leans in the doorway, not exactly slithery but still lithe, sinuous, all those serpentine adjectives. 

“I thought you were going to sleep until July.” Aziraphale eyes the dusting of sugar and deems it acceptable. He busies himself with cutting the cake into slices so he doesn’t have to look at Crowley.

“If I couldn’t find something to do, yeah.” 

Aziraphale finds plates at hand exactly where he expects and puts slices of cake on them: three for him, one for Crowley.

“You said you have wine?” Crowley nods. “I hope one of those is a Madeira.”

“Angel, it’s two in the afternoon.” There’s a note of mock affront in Crowley’s voice that makes Aziraphale want to smile.

Instead, he sniffs. “In a time of crisis, I would say that any hour is a drinking hour.” He takes the plates and heads towards the little table in the back. “I have tea and other things if you would prefer, but it really is traditional to have this with a glass of Madeira.”

‘Then that’s what we’ll do.” Crowley uncorks the bottle and pours each of them a glass. It does go very well indeed with the cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line about any hour being a drinking hour in a time of crisis stolen from my queen [Ina Garten](https://www.instagram.com/tv/B-cJUwUpxbM/?utm_source=ig_embed), who Understands.


	8. simple pleasures

Crowley does not dance, exactly. (He may have tried it a couple times throughout the millennia and decided it’s not a thing his body was meant to do.) But there is definitely some sort of movement in time with the music. It looks like a riff on the hipster head bob, but with much less ironic detachment. 

The only other entities that know about it are God (and if She’s ever observed it, She’s not telling) and Crowley’s plants. (Even if they could tell anybody, they wouldn’t, because they’re too terrified.) It’s not something he ever does outside of his flat, because he has a reputation to maintain. 

This does not mean, however, that it has gone unnoticed. Aziraphale has come in earlier than expected before and seen him staring out the window, lost in the song; or tending to his plants, mouthing the lyrics to something that doesn’t seem at all terrifying. He never mentions it, because he figures everybody is entitled to their little secrets, especially if they don’t hurt anybody. (The fact that he is probably the only sentient being who knows about it is also something he likes.) 

One afternoon in his flat, Aziraphale looks up from his book to see Crowley with his eyes closed, head nodding in rhythm to whatever he’s listening to. There’s a little smile on his face, unguarded in its pleasure. Aziraphale goes back to his reading with a pleased little smile of his own.


	9. come eat some of this cake

It isn’t until Aziraphale wakes up from a nap on the bookshop sofa that it occurs to him he and Crowley are rubbing off on each other. Not in the vulgar, colloquial sense of the phrase (right now, anyways), but in the way they seem to be picking up on each other’s habits. Crowley is sprawled out on an armchair in a position that looks uncomfortable for anybody with non-serpentine vertebrae, looking at his phone and eating a cupcake. 

Or trying to, anyways. It’s one of those large, fancy ones that has as much frosting as cake, and really should be halved or made into a little sandwich. Not that Crowley knows this, the way he’s trying to unhinge his jaw to get the frosting and the cake into his mouth. Aziraphale watches, because it’s funny, and he’s curious to see how far this ridiculousness will go. 

Crowley has finally decided the boa constrictor method isn’t going to work, and instead swipes a generous layer of frosting off the top with his finger. He licks at it absently while scrolling through Instant Gram until it’s almost gone. And then he sticks his finger in his mouth, tonguing at it until no trace of frosting remains before pulling it out, shiny and spit-slick. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes again, taking a deep breath. Maybe he can pretend he's still asleep, as opposed to committing what he just saw to memory. (Cruder people would say he's putting it in his spank bank, but since he would never acknowledge such a phrase, the point is moot.) 

He's not unaware of what Crowley's mouth and tongue are capable of doing, having been on the receiving end of its ministrations. But it's not something he's ever found erotic outside of a sexual context, as much as the humans like to conflate their hedonistic pleasures. It might be a fluke, a one-off thing he'll remember when he feels randy and Crowley isn't around.

He opens his eyes again, stretches luxuriously as he's seen Crowley do after waking. It is quite nice, and he now sees the appeal.

At the sound, Crowley looks up from his phone, smiles at Aziraphale. He's eaten the rest of the cupcake, but there's a smear of frosting at the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale very much wants to go up to him, lick it away before starting in on other things. Instead, he pulls a handkerchief out of the aether, carefully wipes away the frosting.

"Thanks, angel," Crowley says. 

He places a kiss at the spot he just cleaned. "Think nothing of it, my dear."


End file.
